by Deryn Lake
It was just as she was attempting to drop off to sleep again, that Jane heard a faint tapping on her door, and calling out, ‘Who is it?’, heard her sister-in-law’s voice.
‘Come in, the door’s not barred,’ she answered and, somewhat wearily, sat up in bed.
Anne Seymour bustled through, a loose gown over her night-clothes, and a look of importance on her face.
‘Jane, Jane, you must get up and come at once. His Grace has arrived by way of the private corridor and has asked to see you. He thought you might be afraid of the storm.’
Jane yawned affectedly. ‘Must I? I would far rather go to sleep.’ It was worth the small deception to see Anne’s face, over which a look of unmitigated horror now spread.
‘How could you say such a thing, you ungrateful wretch? I can’t believe I am hearing correctly.’
Jane smiled. ‘I am only teasing. I will come.’
Anne gave her a beady-eyed look. ‘You are in a caustic mood, my girl. I cannot say that I care for it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jane, getting out of bed once more and putting a covering robe over her nightdress. ‘In fact I apologise. It must be the effect of the storm.’
Slightly mollified, Anne closed the door behind them and the two women made their way through a palace that had lost a night’s sleep, for candles burnt everywhere and the courtier’s apartments were alive with conversation.
In the sumptuous rooms which until only recently had been occupied by Secretary Cromwell, everyone was astir, servants hurrying to fetch food and wine for His Grace, despite the fact that the day was only three hours old. Jane, somewhat surprised by all the activity, followed Anne into the beautifully appointed principal chamber to discover Henry sitting in a chair, resting his chin on his fist, his face somewhat pale. Without saying a word he took Jane’s hand and led her to the far corner of the room, well away from any listening ears.
This had been the pattern of their meetings since the incident of the returned money. On every occasion Anne and Edward would sit discreetly at one end, studiously averting their eyes, while Henry and Jane would speak in hushed tones at the other. It was wretched for all concerned, yet the King seemed masochistically determined to prove to the world that he was courting Mistress Seymour as a gentleman should, with both decorum and dignity, allowing no breath of scandal to besmirch either of their names.
Now, having reassured himself they were not overheard, Henry said in a whisper, ‘Sweetheart, something of tremendous import has happened. Something that will change our situation, I believe.’
‘What?’ she asked, equally quietly.
‘I cannot tell you here. All I can say is that everything is working to our advantage and I think the next few weeks may see a tremendous turn round of events.’
‘But how?’ she persisted.
Henry ignored the question. ‘Tomorrow, darling heart, I require you to leave the Palace of Whitehall.’
‘You wish me to go to Greenwich?’
‘No. I want you to leave Court.’
Jane stared at him mystified. ‘You are sending me back to Wolff Hall?’
‘No, I don’t intend that either. Sir Nicholas Carew, loyal friend to us both, has a house just seven miles from here. I have already spoken to him and all is arranged for you to go there. I do not want you about when the storm breaks.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Trust me, sweetheart, and do as I say.’
‘Very well,’ answered Jane and gave a small curtsey.
Henry picked up a lock of her hair, turning it this way and that in the candlelight. ‘Spun gold,’ he said, ‘straight from the gates of the sun.’
She smiled, her face, until that moment rather strained, suddenly relaxing into an impish look.
‘I shall sup with you tomorrow evening,’ said Henry softly, then, slightly louder, ‘I must tell your brother of my plans.’
‘Is he to come with me?’
‘No, my dear, I cannot spare any of my Gentlemen at a time like this. Sir Nicholas and Lady Carew will have to be our guardians.’
They stood staring at one another, smiling rather foolishly, remembering all the tenderness that had passed between them in the past.
‘I think,’ said Henry abruptly, ‘that soon we may no longer need chaperons.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Jane, startled.
The King laid an enormous finger across his lips. ‘No more, my dove. All I ask is that you continue to love me.’
‘That I will always do,’ she whispered. And she really meant it, entranced with everything about him, flattered and dazzled by his attentions.
He took both her hands in his. ‘One day soon …’ he said, then abruptly turned away and strode to where Edward and Anne sat patiently, their backs ostentatiously averted.
‘Sir Edward, Lady Seymour, tomorrow I have arranged for your dear sister to leave Court and stay indefinitely at the home of Sir Nicholas Carew.’
Anne looked frankly astonished but Edward, more than aware that the sore, which had been festering since the Queen miscarried her son was just about to erupt, nodded and bowed.
‘As Your Grace commands,’ he said.
*
A few days later in the fields of Greenwich, now rich with daffodils and primroses, two people walked together in the morning sunshine, talking most earnestly.
‘I learned of magic from my Romany kin,’ said Cloverella, ‘but I was returned to the Seymours while still very young so, after that, was forced to teach myself.’
Zachary nodded. ‘That is not altogether a bad thing. I too studied on my own.’
‘And now I learn from you,’ Cloverella shook her head wonderingly. ‘I can hardly believe my great good fortune.’
How she had persuaded Anne Seymour to let her leave Whitehall and go with Jane to Sir Nicholas Carew’s home beyond Greenwich, Cloverella would never know, though possibly Edward’s hand could be seen in the coil somewhere. For Anne had released her without argument and now, here she was, walking with Zachary Howard, who had finally sent for her to come to him as he had promised.
Cloverella went on. ‘What task have you for me? What shall I do, Master?’
‘Go and collect herbs while I rest beneath this tree. Then tell me both the medicinal and magical properties of each one.’
Cloverella looked slightly disappointed. ‘You are not coming with me?’
‘No. I want to see how much you can do for yourself. So go to, and wake me on your return.’
Zachary rolled up his doublet, which Cloverella could not help but notice was of a very lurid purple, quite painful to the eye, and putting it as a cushion behind his head, firmly closed his eyes. Rather disconsolately, Cloverella wandered off to do her errand, glancing back at him once or twice and wishing that the astrologer was with her, as much to guide her as to be her companion. But he seemed to be in a deep sleep already and eventually she gave up and concentrated on the task in hand.
Zachary, however, was watching her intently through lids that only appeared to be closed, appreciating her delicate figure and mane of dark hair, and tolerantly accepting his weakness for pretty women, so at odds with the rest of his life. But then, of course, he was born beneath the sign of the great archer, with hooves so very earthily on the ground yet arrows that shot beyond the stars, the centaur’s vision and mysteries eternally combining with his delight in pursuing the unobtainable. Zachary knew only too well why he behaved as he did, and was unrepentant.
Though he had been married to Jane Wyatt for six years and had kept a mistress, Rosamund Banastre, in Calais for three — both of which young women had borne him children — Zachary felt much as he had done ten years before when he was twenty: his two great sources of pleasure gazing at the heavens or wooing women.
So it was with a very small sigh that the astrologer presently took himself to task for entertaining wicked thoughts about his pupil, an honourable sprig of the house of Seymour who had put herself into his hands in al
l good faith to learn the lore of magicianship.
I shall be honourable, as befits my dignity, he decided to himself, then wondered if he was becoming pompous.
Whether it was such a dreadful notion or just a restless mood suddenly come upon him he did not know but Zachary found himself unable to lie still any longer and rather crossly pulling on his doublet, made his way to the riverbank where his attention was drawn by a cluster of marsh orchids, already blooming in the early sunshine, their purplish flowers in vivid contrast to the small yellow-leafed meadow buttercup.
He stooped to examine the plants more closely and staring at the orchids, magically spotted with vivid red to prove that in nature all colours are compatible (a theory Zachary constantly strove to emulate in dress) reminded him at once of his vivid kinswoman, Anne Boleyn. Years ago, when she had first attracted attention at Court, Zachary had foreseen her ferocious end and wept for her.
And now he knew with certainty that her last days had come and there was nothing he could do to help her, that her very brilliance had fated her to die young, as if so much force and power must be extinguished before it destroyed all those who drew near.
He thought of little plain Jane, whose cousin Zachary could now see wandering back into view, and shook his head sadly. If the King had searched high and low he could not have found a greater contrast to his splendid wife. Yet Jane had a charm undeniably all her own.
Though not nearly as much, thought Zachary, as this pretty thing making its way towards me.
He picked an orchid and stood up, holding the flower out to her. ‘For you,’ he said, and bowed.
She smiled gravely. ‘Thank you, Master. I shall press and treasure it.’
‘I am honoured. But I protest against the formality of the title you give me.’
‘Formality has nothing to do with it,’ Cloverella responded quickly. ‘It is what you have achieved that gives you the right to be spoken of thus.’
Zachary pulled a face. ‘I would rather you regarded me as a friend than a tutor.’
Cloverella dropped her eyes. ‘I already do, Sir.’ When she looked up again she had a certain thoughtful expression. ‘I think I must soon return to Jane. So, if you are ready, may I show you the herbs I have gathered?’
If Zachary was chastened he did not show it, merely inclining his ebony curls. ‘Certainly, please proceed.’
Cloverella reached into her basket. ‘This is St John’s wort.’
‘Aye, so it is. Do you know its use?’
‘To bathe varicose ulcers.’
‘From which the King’s Grace will shortly suffer, so for Jane’s sake be sure to make a preparation of it, adding burdock roots and camomile flowers and pounding in both chopped mallow and walnut leaves.’
Cloverella’s eyebrows rose slightly but she said nothing. ‘And the herb’s mystical uses?’ Zachary continued.
‘To see off the Devil and, if picked on Midsummer Eve and thriving next day, to ensure a chance of marrying well.’
‘Did Mistress Jane gather it last year?’ asked Zachary softly.
Cloverella gave him a penetrating glance. ‘My cousin was not familiar with His Grace last summer. Their friendship began in the autumn.’
Zachary frowned. ‘To the detriment of my cousin.’
Cloverella went pale. ‘I don’t understand, Sir. Your cousin?’
The astrologer nodded grimly. ‘Yes, Mistress. The Queen is my kin. I am the natural son of the Duke of Norfolk.’
The girl took a step back. ‘Then we are of opposing houses, Master.’
‘In a way, yes.’ Zachary smiled again, his fascination tangible. ‘But do not brood on it. My father hates poor Anne and on this occasion is very much for the Seymour cause.’
‘But you do not feel as he does?’
‘No. When I was young I imagined myself in love with her; then, years later, the Queen sent me to the Tower for predicting that Elizabeth would be a girl and our friendship ended. But despite everything I still have a fondness for her.’
‘So you are opposed to Jane?’ asked Cloverella stiffly.
‘I am opposed to no one, Mistress.’
‘Then I trust you will do nothing to alter events,’ Cloverella said quietly — and the first coldness between the two of them was born.
Zachary bowed. ‘I took you as my pupil, Mistress, to teach you all that I know. But if you have no trust in my integrity it is better that we part company now.’
Cloverella hung her head. ‘I am sorry, Master. I am young yet and still speak out of turn.’
‘That is something you must control if you are to become a great woman.’
‘I will try.’
She looked up at him, her eyes dark as sea caves and saw a fantastic smile turn his face from scold to scamp.
‘Be merry. You are too good a pupil for me to lose now. Show me the rest of your herbs and forget what has just passed between us.’
Cloverella rootled through her collection. ‘Why, here’s early flowering vervain,’ she said with studied innocence, drawing out a small lilac-petalled flower.
Zachary regarded her solemnly. ‘And its uses?’
‘As an ingredient to aid digestion.’
‘Anything else?’
Cloverella surveyed the plant, holding it up almost level with her face. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘It is the same colour as your eyes as I am sure you have often been told. But that is incidental. It is, in fact, a very powerful love potion and charm against enchantment. Bathe in water containing vervain and you will not only be able to divine the future but every wish you have will be granted.’
‘Really?’ said Cloverella, widening her gaze. ‘Have you ever done so, Master?’
He solemnly winked an eye. ‘What do you think, my dear?’
The cream of Cloverella’s cheek suddenly bloomed into rose, as, without answering, she busied herself once more with the herbs in her basket.
*
In between St George’s Day and the next great festival of May, it seemed as though a lull lay over the Court, and so no one was surprised when, on the evening of April 27th, the King left Whitehall by water for an unknown destination accompanied only by Sir Nicholas Carew, who had most recently been honoured as a Knight of the Garter whilst the Queen’s brother, Lord Rochford, had, strangely, been passed by.
The inner circle of courtiers knew, of course, that Mistress Seymour was lodged at the home of the Carews and so no wagers were laid as to where His Grace was going. Rather, and more sinisterly, money was changing hands as to when the newly appointed commission to investigate treasonable acts against the King’s Majesty would strike at the Queen, who resided almost permanently at Greenwich these days, and was rarely seen at Court.
In the whispering gallery of Tudor life, rumours were flying and, though Thomas Cromwell himself retained a flint-like composure, it was said by those closest to him that he had obtained certain evidences, though exactly of what nature was not as yet clear.
But to Sir Nicholas Carew, sitting opposite Henry in the barge’s small cabin, the King was about to unburden himself.
‘Nicholas, I am a cuckold,’ he said with a deep sigh, and when Carew jumped up in shock, went on, ‘Cromwell took a statement from Mark Smeaton this morning. He has signed a confession. He has enjoyed carnal knowledge of the Queen.’
‘God a’mercy,’ gasped the astounded Sir Nicholas, mopping his brow with his sleeve and hardly believing his senses. ‘How can that be? Has the Lady gone mad?’
Henry shook his head, his face pale as a pudding. ‘God knows what is in the evil shrew’s mind. Perhaps a notion to kill me. At least that is what Mr Secretary believes. There may be other men involved too. Smeaton mentioned more names.’
Carew narrowed his eyes, thinking of the great soft fool of a musician and guessing without too much difficulty how the confession had been extracted.
‘Your Grace,’ he said, sitting down again slowly. ‘Had you any idea this affair was going o
n?’
The big face went blank. ‘None, Nick, none. I am as amazed as you are. I was cuckolded beneath my very nose and knew nothing of it.’
Carew shook his head and just for a moment, a moment that would never come again but which he never afterwards forgot, the King’s eye held a gleam of something intangible which, when he thought about it, convinced Sir Nicholas that Henry was prepared to accept absolutely anything as truth in order to get rid of his wife.
‘These others?’ asked Nicholas suspiciously. ‘Have you any idea who they might be?’
‘The members of her set,’ answered Henry portentously.
Norris, Page, Weston, Wyatt, Brereton, considered Carew rapidly. None of them very likely. There’s something suspect about all this. But who cares so long as the bitch is disgraced?
Aloud he said, ‘I sympathise wholeheartedly with Your Grace’s situation, of course. But …’ He let his voice float away as if he had thought better of what he was saying.
‘But …?’ repeated Henry.
‘Pardon me, Your Grace, but privy as I am to your tenderness for Mistress Seymour, I cannot help but feel that the Queen’s scandalous behaviour might now open a door which has previously been closed to you.’
A sentimental look, which Carew found extremely offensive, came over the King’s features. ‘Indeed, indeed.’ He lowered his tone to a confiding whisper. ‘Knowing what I do, Nick, I now feel free to declare myself. Tonight I intend to make Jane a formal proposal of marriage.’
Distaste, delicacy, doubt, all went for nothing as Carew realised with a great swelling of his heart that Katharine of Aragon had finally been avenged; that when Jane Seymour was Queen of England she would do everything in her power to rescue the dead Queen’s daughter from her wretched conditions.
Nicholas jumped to his feet yet again, all smiles and winks, every inch the carefree courtier. ‘May I be the very first to offer my congratulations, Sir?’ he said heartily. ‘There could not be a more splendid match,’ and with that he made a florid bow and falling on one knee before the king, kissed his hand.